


Ancient History

by all_my_fandoms (marina)



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/all_my_fandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"History is full of the dead weight of things which have escaped the control of the mind, yet drive man on with a blind force."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancient History

**Author's Note:**

> First time flashfic writer. Beta by the inestimable [](http://kisahawklin.livejournal.com/profile)[**kisahawklin**](http://kisahawklin.livejournal.com/), who did her best to pull me away from the Dark Side of English grammar.

  
_History is full of the dead weight of things which have escaped the control of the mind, yet drive man on with a blind force._  
Sir F. M. Powicke

 

There was a photograph in one of the family albums John found when he was about seven, of his dad holding hands with a woman in a huge white dress. John asked his new nanny who the person in the picture was but she'd never seen it before.

He came into his father's study after dinner, on one of the rare days he was home before John went to bed. His father took the picture and sank down into his chair. John climbed into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. They were his favorite kind, able to turn around and around, gaining speed.

John got in three full spins before his father said, "This is from the day I married your mother."

John never got the picture back, and later the album disappeared as well. His brother claimed innocence but John knew he'd probably stolen it in retaliation for hiding Mr. Barrelfluff under the sofa in the upstairs playroom.

As he got older, John memorized his mother's features from several albums and dozens of framed, glossy photographs. That wedding photo though, strangely the only wedding photo of his parents he'd ever seen, remained, like a shadow, in the back of his mind. By the time John was a teenager it was slightly out of focus, the edges mostly smudged, so the only things John still felt certain about were his mother's long, dark-brown hair, the flowing white dress and the expression of utter happiness on her face.

*** 

 

"I can't believe we're really doing this!" Nancy said with a beaming grin that made her look five years younger, therefore putting John dangerously close to pedophile territory. Sitting in front of the huge vanity in the guest-room-turned-dressing-room, with her dark hair a shimmering arrangment towering an inch over her head, wrapped in a plain blue robe, she looked like she was playing dress-up.

"God, you look so good in that tux."

"We could just skip the ceremony, you know." John raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Get right to the wedding night. I'm sure no one would notice."

Nancy gave a little snort. "Oh, of course. Only, what? Two hundred of your dad's closest associates sitting out there right now?" Nancy put her hands in the robe's pockets. "How did they let you come in here, anyway? Did you bribe someone or..." Her expression changed to one of resignation. "Did you seduce Aunt Silvia?"

"You can't blame me, her mustache is pretty damn attractive," John said with a smile and leaned down to kiss her, but her freshly manicured hand came up to stop him.

"Do you know how long it took them to apply this make up?" Nancy reached up to give him a peck on the lips while he kept his face perfectly still. "Also, if you'd come in here three minutes later and seen the dress before the ceremony, my aunt's mustache would have been the least of your worries," she promised.

John winked at her, slipped out the door, said "I do," and quickly settled into a part of his life that didn't end in cold silences at his father's dinner table.

During his downtime, while Nancy was at work, John sometimes got into fits of productivity and did house work. Vacuuming, laundry, clearing out the cobwebs in the basement. Sometimes Nancy called him her French maid before collapsing on the bed with a smile, inhaling the smell of clean sheets and lazily toeing off her shoes.

On three different Sundays, John woke up to pancakes in bed followed by a blow job from his wife. He could swear the chocolate syrup was made with real chocolate.

One of Nancy's friends found out she was pregnant while John was on a mission in the gulf. After three days of training, followed by the mission being canceled due to poor weather, followed by staying awake for forty eight hours while trying to catch a flight home, John was greeted by a living room full of excited strangers. Nancy, apparently, hadn't thought to let him know she'd decided to throw a party for a bunch of her girlfriends, to celebrate.

It ended in a screaming match. He slammed the door in her face and spent the next two days sleeping in the basement, watching TV and looking all over for his dog tags. They magically reappeared the day he and Nancy started speaking again.

Later, he wondered if the whole thing had been her subtle way of letting him know she'd like to try for a kid too, but he didn't know how to ask and he certainly wasn't going to bring it up outright. It turned into another one of those things they managed to forget about most of the time until, months later, during a fight the origins of which eluded him even while he was busy yelling, she said he couldn't expect her to inform him about everything that went on in her life if his only two modes were 'at home' and 'unavailable'.

He pointed out that he wasn't always unreachable on an assignment, just most of the time, and she said, "By most of the time you mean most of the time we've been together, right?"

John signed the documents, sitting in a stuffy office. Nancy, hair cut short and held back in a miniature ponytail, muttered "I can't believe we're really doing this," under her breath when he slid the papers to her across the desk.

*** 

 

John was stuffing his boxers into the duffel when he got a little lightheaded. His average total packing time was under twenty minutes, he'd done this a thousand times before, but right now he had to sit down and breathe and not look at his hands because, wow, they could actually be shaking.

He was thirty-six years old.

There was no doubt in his mind he'd done the right thing and that he'd do it again. In a heartbeat. He'd never given much thought to how they'd deal with him, if his chopper even survived the journey, but he never imagined... this. A relatively quiet, tidy affair. No mess, no press, no jail time. Somewhere in the back of his mind he assumed breaking a rule this big would bring about a more colorful outcome.

Dave had actually _laughed_ the first time John mentioned that he'd like to be a pilot. A _military_ pilot. Then he saw John's face and said, "Don't be an idiot. Riding horses isn't the same thing as flying planes. Besides, what do you know about taking orders? I bet you still get Susan to make your bed." John told him he didn't know anything, but Dave had just finished a semester at Harvard, so, secretly, John had been afraid that Dave really knew _everything_.

The rusty metal cot, with a mattress soft in all the wrong places, one in a long line of cots John'd befriended over the years, creaked dutifully under his weight.

He was going to finish out his career at McMurdo Station. Flying over the same barren patch of white every single day, playing chauffer.

He hadn't spoken to his father in eight years.

John took a deep breath.

 

***  
***

 

A few none-too-taxing missions after the Daedalus leaves, and one horrifyingly awful one, John's pretty certain Lorne isn't a very good second-in-command. He doesn't seem to have the imagination required for survival in a galaxy where mist can be a sentient enemy. He's not bad enough to send back but he isn't good enough to be let out of John's sight, either.

On Elizabeth's insistence, Lorne gets an invitation to a semi-official interview and coffee - a luxury given the current shortage - in John's office.

After it becomes apparent that even if John's last name had been Weir he still wouldn't have any idea how these things were supposed to go, the conversation quickly turns casual. Half an hour after that, John realizes he's kind of pissed off. Lorne is probably the most intelligent and diligent officer John's seen in a long time, with plenty of imagination, only an apparent lack of willingness to use it. John makes himself another cup and gives Lorne a _real_ performance evaluation.

Lorne doesn't answer back or justify himself, but at some point what comes out of it his mouth is, "Well, that really wasn't my call sir, I thought you had to sign off on it first in order to--"

"When I put you in charge, Major, it's your job to be in _charge_," John's mouth starts calling the shots and his brain struggles to keep up. "If you can't make decisions without me around, I have no use for you. When the next crisis comes around, if I don't make it, _you'll_ have a responsibility to the people of this city, and you better show me you're ready for that."

The silence is awkward, but short. Lorne says "Yes, sir," and "Won't happen again, sir," and strides out, not meeting John's eyes.

John slumps in the chair, rubs the tired out of his eyes and spends long minutes wondering what Lorne will put on his transfer request and how long it'll take to process through two galaxies.

John remembers the weeks he spent as Sumner's second. The man dispensed approval in return for absolute obedience and got nothing but defiance from John, with every look and every word. Sumner had been a veteran, respected by his superiors, admired by his subordinates, but John had lost his patience along with any illusions he'd had about his career.

It suddenly hits him, unexpected like a Genii ambush, that Lorne's treating him the way John should have treated Sumner. The realization sinks in, ridiculous after all this time, that he really is starting to fill the Colonel's shoes.

*** 

 

At first Rodney calls John down to the labs and says, "Touch this -- no, no, not _that_ you idiot!" And, "Can you make this work, I think it's been broken for a while," and, "Just imagine the practical applications, Colonel, imagine the _hamburgers_!"

Later, Rodney starts saying things like, "You like when I touch you here?" and, "Hold on, I think I know how to make this work," and, "John, put down that pillow _right now_, I'm probably allergic to Ancient feathers!"

After returning from M6P-485, Lorne spends two weeks under Beckett's care and John has to give the weekly Proper Gun Maintenance talk himself. John hates public speaking more than all the administrative tasks Lorne's taken over, combined. After breakfast in Rodney's room, he walks into a gym full of bored Marines, and can't stop grinning like an idiot for the entire thirty minutes.

Cadman starts giving him funny looks whenever he cleans his P90 in her presence and Rodney thinks it's hilarious to start a rumor that John's named it 'Vera'.

*** 

John walks into his quarters after a briefing and finds Rodney rifling through one of the drawers in the Dumped Upon Arrival and Never Touched Since corner of the room.

Rodney hears John come in, turns around and says, "Oh, hey. I ran out of coffee, wondered if you might have some left."

"It's a little disturbing, how much I really believe that."

"I can't believe you still have this," Rodney holds up a photograph and points to it with his other hand. John knows it's a group photo of the Atlantis Expedition, taken about a week before he took his first journey through the gate.

Elizabeth is wearing her red sweater, Ford has a big goofy grin and Carson's looking off camera, rubbing shoulders with Rodney, the warm, bright orange center of the photo.

"I really liked that fleece," Rodney sighs.

John rolls his eyes but can't keep the smile off his face, "It's ancient history McKay, let it go."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ancient History (Stale Coffee Grinds Mix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/88329) by [extraonions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraonions/pseuds/extraonions)




End file.
